


Cat Liver and other stories

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Very Mild / Low Gore Level References to Dissection & Bodily Fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Relationships can be messy.5 fluffy snapshots of FitzSimmons throughout the years.





	Cat Liver and other stories

**Author's Note:**

> For @otherpartyfavors as part of @thefitzsimmonsnetwork Valentines Exchange. Prompt was: "relationships can be messy." Enjoy!

_i -_  

One fine and fateful day, Shield SciTech cadet Leopold Fitz strode through the lab doors with a smile on his face, chomping merrily on a roast beef sandwich until his eyes fell to the stainless-steel bench in the middle of the room. He stopped dead. The body of an unfortunate ginger cat lay before him in a horrendous, almost comedically unnatural position: stiff as a board with all four legs in the air. His stomach turned, and the colour rushed out of his cheeks. 

“Wo’ is tha’?” he demanded, and then forced himself to swallow the mouthful of his lunch before he could scoff indignantly enough to choke himself. 

“The real question is: what is _that?!”_ His classmate, countryman and reluctant colleague in this interdisciplinary endeavour, Doctor Jemma Simmons, fumed as she swooped toward him, pointing an accusing finger at the sandwich. 

“It’s my _lunch!”_

“It’s a _biohazard!”_  

Simmons swiftly herded him from the room and slammed the button that shut the glass doors to keep him out. Fitz glared for a moment, but he couldn’t say he was properly upset. Dead bodies in his lab? No, thank you – cats or otherwise. He returned to his computer, and sat down with a huff, only to remember the reason he’d gone to find his disgusting classmate in her disgusting workplace to begin with. 

“SIMMONS!” he called, because she was only in the next room over anyway. “Can you come out here?”

In a much more level tone, Simmons’ voice came over the intercom: “Must I?” 

With a roll of his eyes, Fitz propelled his chair across the room and pressed the button down on his side of the comms. “If you want security clearance for the Rayleigh Convention, then yes. They want your retinal ID.” 

“Oh. Well that’s alright then.” 

The doors slid open again and Simmons emerged, carrying a large aluminium kidney dish. Fitz screwed up his nose and scooched his chair aside, not daring to look at the contents of the dish as Simmons leaned into the scanner perched above his monitor to give her reading. It seemed to take a lot longer than it actually did, what with Fitz trying to hold his breath and all – the chemicals they drenched these things in really did a number on his senses – so he felt quite miserable about the whole thing, maybe even a little spiteful, by the time Simmons was done. As she walked away, he pulled a scented candle from his drawer and made a show of lighting it. Of course, Simmons just rolled her eyes. 

Now embittered by the fruitlessness of his own dramatics, more than anything else, Fitz went back to work, glaring at his screen and letting his grudge fester for a little while in silence. Eventually, however, his stomach got the best of him and he reached blindly for his sandwich – only to find his fingers pressing into something cold, and clammy, like a dead fish. Or… 

_“BLOODY HELL!”_

Fitz stumbled backward, all but falling off his chair. He knocked his own sandwich, and the kidney dish, and a random assortment of other junk – in fairness, mostly his own - off the desk and onto the floor. Simmons, of course, came running, and stopped in the doorway with a mortified expression. 

“Fitz! What happened?!”

Without waiting for a reply, and all but ignoring his pantomime display of distress, Simmons flung herself forward to kneel by the kidney dish, and scooped its contents up, frowning at herself – and, no doubt, at Fitz - for having let this happen. 

“Oh no, the liver’s bruised,” she murmured. “At least this doesn’t mess up my toxicology. Maybe I should get a sample of the bare floor, just in case…” 

 _“Liver?!”_ Fitz was torn between wiping the slimey feeling off his fingers onto his pants or resisting so as not to contaminate his clothes. “Are you telling me I almost _ate_ a bloody _cat liver?!”_

“Well, it’s your fault!” Simmons countered.

“How??” Fitz waved at the remnants of his sandwich, scattered and smudged across the floor. “Who leaves a _cat liver_ next to a man’s lunch?! Disgusting.” 

 _“You’re_ disgusting!” Simmons retorted, and all of a sudden felt just as juvenile as she sounded. She scurried back around the corner into the safety of her lab before her face could flush too brightly red with embarrassment as much as rage. Fitz screwed up his nose and set about cleaning up the rest of his workspace, with no bitching and/or moaning left unbitched or unmoaned – and not entirely under his breath, either. Ugh, biologists. This bloody woman was going to be the death of him. 

- 

_ii –_

“Don’t come in,” Simmons warned, the misery and sickness clear in her shaky voice. “I’m disgusting.” 

Even with his back to the bathroom door, safe on the other side of it, Fitz grimaced at the sound of another wretch, and liquid hitting porcelain. His skin felt cold and clammy enough without the thought of walking in there, and the stench of alcohol burned his nostrils, but Simmons was starting to wheeze and whine in the aftermath of each episode now and that twisted his heart as well as his stomach.

“I’ve got a bottle of water,” he offered. “I’m sending it in, okay?”

Simmons gave a grunt of acknowledgement, so he took a deep breath, cracked the door open and rolled the bottle toward where he knew the toilet was. It bumped against Simmons’ leg and she snatched it up gratefully as Fitz retreated.

“Thanks,” she said. “You’re the best.” 

“What are friends for?” Fitz smiled, settling back into place against the door. “Other than – you know, holding your hair or something. Did you want me to hold your hair?” 

“It’s fine,” Simmons brushed him off drowsily. “Probably for the best, after what happened last time.” 

“Oi, don’t blame that on me!” Fitz retorted. “I told you, I’m a sympathetic vomiter.” 

“Rubbish,” Jemma sneered. “There’s no such –“ 

“Mmmmm,” Fitz hummed loudly, over the sound of another bout, and redoubled his efforts at distraction. “So how did the illustrious and ever-prepared Doctor Doctor Jemma Simmons come to this, hm?” 

“Todd.” Her voice dripped with disdain – though its effect was a little dampened by the slurring. “I totally beat him you know. I did. Technically. Per unit of bodyweight, I drank him _under the table.”_  

“But… he’s a foot taller and at least a foot wider than you?” Fitz guessed. These Operations types. “That’s a lot more alcohol room, Simmons.”

“I _know,”_ she snapped. “How’d you think I got here? Ooh, speaking of which, I’m feeling dizzy now. I’m just going to lie down for a tick. I think the worst is over.” 

Fitz breathed a sigh of relief and stepped back from the door, expecting Simmons to come out any second, and make a stumbling beeline for her bed. He’d already set it up with towels to protect the linens, and an empty mixing bowl on her bedside table just in case. And yet, she did not emerge. 

“Simmons?” He rapped his knuckles on the door. “Do you want breakfast? There’s an apple in your fridge… or tea… or eggs. Eggs are good for hangovers. Do you want me to make eggs? …Jemma?” 

Hesitantly, Fitz pushed the door open. The bathroom was not, of course, the vomit-coated hellscape he’d been imagining. This was Jemma Simmons we were talking about: she was a lady, and a lady always vomits into the bowl. Even if she then, apparently, falls asleep on the tiles in front of the toilet, having abandoned her pants (though fortunately for Fitz, not her underwear). 

“Are… you okay?” Fitz checked. 

“Mm,” Jemma affirmed. “Floor cold. Feels nice.” 

“Right, but you know what feels nicer? Bed.” 

She shook her head. “Too far.” 

“I’ll help,” Fitz offered. Jemma groaned, but a combination of her desire to rest, and what was left of her dignity, made her drag herself into a sitting position and tangle herself in Fitz’s outstretched arms. Together they made it to the bed. Fitz tucked her in, and then made another trip to the bathroom and returned with her water bottle and a flannel doused in cold water – a headache relief by which his mother swore, and which judging by her rather shameless sigh, Jemma also seemed to find effective. 

“It contracts the blood vessels, or something,” he attempted to explain, and Jemma hummed, in vague acknowledgement. Fitz wondered if he should stroke her hair, or rub her back, or some other soothing movement he himself would appreciate in a time like this. No, right? But then, what should he do? Get up? He didn’t feel like trekking back to his apartment at this hour, and sleeping on the floor was not enticing, even as tired as he was. 

“Just lie down already,” Jemma huffed, and pulled at his arm until he obeyed. 

Lying down from where he had been sitting, Fitz just barely managed to maneuver around Jemma’s body. Without considerable rearrangement of everything involved – towels, blankets, limbs - there was nothing for it but to spoon, which if Fitz were being honest, was a little daunting. Having been friends with Jemma for a good while now, and virtually inseparable for much of that time, this was not the first time he had shared a bed with her, but it was the first time he had found himself so close that his nose all but pressed into her hair. He held his breath, because surely it would be irreparably weird if in this vulnerable moment he learnt what her hair smelt like. 

And maybe he would have been right, if it had smelt like something he’d imagined - Honey? Frangipanis? - but of course, it smelt like vomit and beer.

- 

_iii –_

“Lemonade, _Mrs_ Simmons?” Fitz offered, smiling to himself as if their marriage was some kind of private joke as he poured himself and Jemma each a glass, and slid hers across the bench toward her. With a matching smirk, Jemma bowed theatrically and accepted. 

“Don’t mind if I do, _Mr_ Fitz.” She wiped her brow, downed half the glass at once, and let out a satisfied sigh. Though the apartment was still almost bare, Fitz had insisted on installing the fridge early, and in that moment Jemma could not have been happier with the decision. “Ooh, homemade?” 

“Of course,” Fitz assured her, watching with curiosity as she sashayed past him and into the kitchen. 

“You know what this would go great with?” she remarked, and pulled open the fridge to reveal her creation: a plate of sandwiches, made with beautiful Panini bread and what appeared to be fresh ingredients, arranged semi-artistically and covered with cling-wrap. “I made them yesterday. Figured we wouldn’t be in the mood for food preparation after this morning.” 

Fitz’s stomach gargled loudly, which told her she’d figured right, and the two of them gladly set upon their lunch like ravenous wolves for the first few minutes. Soon enough, though, they did pause to take a breath, and to bring back the conversation that peaceable, working silence had overtaken some time ago. 

“You know,” Fitz remarked. “I wasn’t sure about white, but I think it works, as long as we break it up in some of other rooms.” 

“Mm.” Jemma nodded, and from her back pocket, pulled out a handful of paint swatches. “I was thinking lemon or sunshine for the bedroom. Mint for the bathroom, or perhaps periwinkle. I like dusky rose, but it’s a little too dark, and I’m not sure what to do with it. What do you think?” 

Fitz laughed. “I think we’re not made of money, Jemma!” 

“I know,” she crooned, fawning over the samples. “But they’re so _pretty._ I’m nesting, okay?” 

“Oh, _you_ are? Okay, how’s this - I woke up in the middle of the night with plans to design a cabinet in my head. And not like, aluminium and glass. I mean one of those ones you’d find whitewashed in some old lady’s house, with fancy window holes in the doors to see a collection of teacups through, or something.” 

“I would love to grow old and collect teacups with you,” Jemma promised. “But since when are you a carpenter?” 

“I’ll figure something out. It’s all cutting stuff into patterns, right? Metalwork, woodwork, it’s basically the same thing.” 

“Sure.” Jemma raised her eyebrows, taking a sip of her lemonade as skeptically as possible. Fitz seemed to have got it into his head that he was going to be the resident handy man, but even genius as he was, she doubted he was prepared. A clogged drain may not be as advanced as a billion-dollar military-grade aeroplane but it’d sure had him cursing blue bloody murder not two days ago. Then again, she supposed, so had the plane. 

Fitz just rolled his eyes, and this brought his attention back to the paint swatches Jemma had left on the bench. He raised the yellow one to his eye level, and peered past it through the breakfast nook to the white walls on the other side. Patches of sunlight danced across the fresh paint, interrupted by the thin foliage of the trees out front, and Fitz recalled the glee with which Jemma had thrown open the dusty curtains when they’d first, at last, begun their official move-in. She had been so thrilled to just let the sunlight wash over her. 

“The yellow is nice,” he conceded. “Sunshine, I think. We should start with that one next. In the bedroom, you said?”

“Right,” Jemma agreed, taking the swatch from him, and smiling as she sidled in closer for a kiss. “I’ll order some this afternoon.” 

Fitz brushed a lock of hair from her face, smiling down into her hazel eyes. But before he could close the distance she had started on, his expression quickly switched, from sweetness to mortification. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. 

“For what?” Jemma laughed, and then felt the smear of what must have been paint that he had left across her forehead. “Ah! My hair! _Fitz!”_  

“I didn’t mean it!” he yelped, but a mischievous grin had already broken out across Jemma’s face. She snatched an abandoned brush off the bench and swiped it across his chest. Fitz jumped back, dodging out of the way, and then vaulted over the bench, sprinting for his own brush and roller at the back of the room.

“Oi!” Jemma scolded, rounding the bench to chase him. “No vaulting once the furniture’s in.” 

“Ah, but the furniture’s _not_ in,” Fitz reminded her, and turned to face her, wielding the brushes like batons. 

They circled each other for a while, and then Fitz thought he spied an opening in Jemma’s defences. He lunged, and she took the opportunity to disarm him. After that it was a flurry of movement, the two of them locked in combat and bouncing around the room like a tiny hurricane. Miraculously, they managed to avoid upsetting the ladder that bore the paint they had been using, but eventually Fitz’s heel caught in a sheet and he ended up pulling them both to the floor. They tumbled apart, both spattered and smeared in paint, and laughing. 

- 

 _iv –_  

“Leopold?” 

Fitz’s eyes snapped toward the sound. He sat in another room of white, this one filled with rows of old peach-coloured chairs. Bouncing his leg, he clenched his phone in one anxious fist, excitement coursing through him like a sugar rush – excitement, and of course, no shortage of fear. But the nurse was smiling as she approached, and that told him there was good news.

“Mr Fitz?” she checked, and he nodded. “Your wife is asking for you.” 

Despite approaching his thirtieth hour awake, Fitz rose as if summoned by magic out of the chair. He followed the nurse down the corridor and into a side room as she explained – 

“Now, I just want to assure you that everything is going well with the birth so far. It’s just taking a little longer than expected, due to Jemma being – well, tense.” 

Fitz snorted. “Yeah. She does that.” 

And, said the look that passed between them, trying to push a baby out was not going to help. The nurse handed Fitz a set of scrubs and finished her instructions as he pulled them on:

“Wash your hands, Mr Fitz – thoroughly, mind, - and join us when you’re ready,” she said. “Jemma will be very glad to see you, even though she might not look it.” 

With a nod in his direction, the nurse disappeared back into Jemma’s room. Fitz strained his neck, trying to get a glimpse, and failed, which only made him keener to get inside. He washed up, painstakingly following the instructions on the chart, and then took one final moment to gather his thoughts. He had to be clean; he had to be calm; he had to be confident in the face of - dear Lord, so many bodily fluids. Whenever a birth came up on telly, Jemma had always like to remind him that it was very common for mothers to – 

Nope. Don’t think about it. 

He took a deep breath, and pushed through the door. “Jemma?” 

“Fitz?” 

It was a soft, exhausted breath, and it drowned out the buzzing of all his anxieties, just for a moment. Fitz felt the knot in his shoulders unravel as he finally stepped into Jemma’s line of sight. He hadn’t realised just how much sitting in that waiting room, separate from her now of all times, had wound him up until this, even this simple look, gave him satisfaction. How had they ever expected to do this any other way but together? Climbing into her thirteenth hour of labour now, how was Jemma even still going at all? Fitz couldn’t help but be in awe, though he was sure Jemma would roll her eyes if he said as much: she looked, shall we say, less than flattering. Her face was patchy, alternately flushed and discoloured. Her hair was wild and drenched in sweat. There were tears in her eyes - but for a split second, when she saw him, there was also peace. 

And then there was pain again. 

“GET _OVER HERE!”_ Jemma roared, through clenched teeth as another contraction seized her body. Fitz scampered to her side as she reached for him, and let her grasp his hand and squeeze. Damn, that woman had a grip, but Fitz could hardly feel it. His heart pounded. He wanted to say something to her, but he wasn’t sure what until it spilled from his lips.

“I’m here. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” He squeezed her hand, wishing with all his might that he could somehow pile his strength onto hers as she gritted her teeth and squeezed and screamed and pushed.

“Ha ha!” the doctor cheered. “That’s what we like to see. You’re doing great, Jemma, we’re nearly there, okay? I reckon we’ll be done in three more like that. Can you give me three more?” 

Jemma took a deep, trembling breath. 

“Okay.” 

That was the end of what could have been called conversation. After that, the room was full of screams and groans, and a surprising amount of blood and god-awful smells, and then – finally – the ear-splitting cry of a newborn baby entering the world. The doctors moved swiftly, measuring and checking and cleaning, but Jemma didn’t breathe her sigh of relief until her daughter was back in her arms. Fitz stared on in awe, tears of wonder shining in his eyes, and Jemma couldn’t blame him. Hers were still streaming down her face. 

“We did it, Fitz. Look at her,” she whispered, lifting her daughter’s arm by her tiny, grasping fingers and beaming at Fitz as she showed them off. “Oh, I can’t wait for the others to meet her. When they drag me off for a shower, you call the others; tell them they can come visit. But don’t tell them I cried. Or peed, or any of that stuff.” 

“Of course not,” Fitz swore. “You were a queen, a goddess amongst men, bringing our little girl into the world. It was the most wonderful and majestic thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Jemma blushed, but even when a smile cracked through Fitz’s deadpan expression, she couldn’t quite bring herself to roll her eyes. She knew sincerity when she heard it. 

“Oh, _Fitz,_ ” she said instead.

 -

 _v_ – 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” 

Beaming, Jemma held up her wrist so that Fitz could see the snake curled around it. It wasn’t the Amazonian monster he had been expecting from Jemma’s messages: rather, it was probably as long as his arm, when unfurled, and with a head about the size of his thumb. Its pattern reminded him of a tabby cat, and its eyes walked a fine line between beady and textbook-adorable. Still, Fitz stepped back, and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“This is Rose?”

“Yes.” 

“You bought our daughter a snake.” 

“I bought our _family_ a snake,” Jemma corrected, “and you already signed off on it, remember? There was a whole speech. They’re easy to look after if you know how, which I do, because I have a degree in it. They don’t shed hair, they extremely rarely trigger allergies –“ 

“They eat mice!” 

“Frozen mice,” Jemma pointed out. “They’re dead already. You can buy them from the pet store.” 

“That’s not better!” he choked. 

“Would you prefer if somebody else killed and minced us a cow?” Jemma challenged. Fitz sighed, and some of the colour returned to his face as he waved away his own indignance. 

“Fine,” he conceded. “That’s fair. And the allergy thing is clever. I just don’t love snakes, I guess. And I’m not feeding it.” 

He eyed Rose uncomfortably, and Jemma frowned. 

“She’s not going to bite you, Fitz, she’s a python. No venom. Just cuddles.” 

“Yeah, deadly cuddles. Size me up in the nighttime is what she’s going to do, and then eat me when we’re least expecting it.” 

“Well, I did just adjust all our life insurance policies. How can you be sure I didn’t plan this whole thing, as a ridiculously elaborate scam?” Jemma snorted. When Fitz failed to appear amused, she pouted and slid closer to him, raising Rose to dangle at his head height. “Come on. Take a look into those eyes, and I guarantee you’ll fall in love. Say hello.” 

“No!” Fitz raised his hands. “Just - not so close. Come on, Jemma.”

“Oh, all right.” Jemma shook her head, and gave up the hunt, returning to her work on the terrarium setup. Now that he was no longer under direct threat, Fitz resumed working alongside her – at a respectable distance, of course - setting up the heat lamp and examining the bowls and hide-houses Jemma had selected with curiosity. 

“Evie will be excited,” Fitz offered. “We learnt the word ‘snake’ this afternoon. I told her Mommy was out buying a special pet and it would only get here if she went to sleep.” 

“Sound logic,” Jemma teased. 

“Worked though,” Fitz pointed out, then lowered his voice, as if afraid to jinx it. “Haven’t heard a peep out of her for a good half-hour.” 

“I see,” Jemma remarked, a sparkle in her eye. “We shall have to use bribery more often. How was the rest of your afternoon? How’s the cabinet going?” 

“Getting there, actually,” Fitz said, his eyes lighting up with pride. “Evie thinks I should put giraffes on it.” 

“She can say ‘giraffes’ too?” 

“Well…” Fitz gestured uncertainly. “That was more… contextual.” 

“How d’you mean?”

Fitz led Jemma to the spare room he’d been using as a workspace. In the centre, amongst tools and rulers and scraps and sawdust, sat a near-finished, respectable-looking cabinet the size of a child’s dresser. On the raw wood, tiny hands had scribbled a yellow and brown horselike shape with a long neck, and some grass and sky for it to run on. Jemma snorted with laughter. 

“Cheeky girl!” she remarked. “Although, amazing work. The giraffe has four legs. That kind of perspective is unusual at her age.” 

Fitz shrugged, though he was grinning all the while as he watched Jemma pore over the picture and take a snapshot with her phone. 

“I just thought it was cute,” he said. “We’ll have to paint over it to protect the wood, but maybe we should find something else for her to get her hands on. I was thinking of building a chalkboard into the side of her dresser or something.”  
  
“We can’t condition her to draw on furniture, Fitz.” 

“She’ll understand the difference!” Fitz insisted, and then covered his mouth frantically. Evie was sleeping in the next room over – or at least, she had been. 

 _“Damn it,”_ Fitz whispered quietly, as Evie let out an uncertain, disoriented cry. He and Jemma held their breaths, waiting to see what this would turn into. Full-blown hysteria? Settling back to sleep? 

Neither. 

_“MOMMYYYYY!”_

Jemma ran for the door. This could still lean either way, toward despair or excitement, and she knew which they would all prefer. 

“Wait, the snake!” Fitz pointed out. 

“Right!” She unfurled Rose and piled her into Fitz’s arms. He froze solid, more from confusion than anything else. 

 _What?_ His brain demanded. _What in all heck is happening right now?_  

Rose curled up in his hand, looking quite put out by the sudden disturbance. Stroppy, even. Fitz snorted. The attitude on this one! Amused, he didn’t jump too much when Rose started moving, experimenting with his forearms and fingers for a comfortable place to perch. The movement of her muscles and scales felt bizarre against his skin, but he was hardly going to drop her, so there was nothing else for it but to acclimatise to the experience.

“Gonna sit right in the middle there, huh?” He smirked. “I like your style. Stubborn ass. You’ll fit right in.” 

He laughed, and that’s when he noticed a new sensation. A sort of watery one, as if perhaps the snake was lubricating itself. Or… 

_“JEMMA!”_

With a hop, skip and a jump he bolted into Evie’s room. From Jemma’s arms, Evie beamed at the sight of her father, while Jemma raised an eyebrow, in curiosity and concern. Fitz, feeling quite sorry for himself, explained:

“Jemma. Your snake is peeing on me.”

Evie clapped, and gargled in delight.


End file.
